


Satellite Heart

by EntreNous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Teenlock, Unhappy Ending, Unilock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:44:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EntreNous/pseuds/EntreNous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The color drains out of Sherlock's world the day John Watson leaves him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satellite Heart

The color drains out of Sherlock's world the day John Watson leaves him.

"He's not leaving _you_ , of course," Mycroft murmurs from the doorway of Sherlock's room that morning while Sherlock stares, unseeing, into his microscope. "You must understand the opportunity this presents for John. And as his best friend, you should want him to pursue his chosen path in the Army despite your own ill-advised over-investment in --"

The drone of condescending words turns into so much static in Sherlock's head; it's nothing to the bright blue-white rage building up in his chest and thrumming in his blood. His very skin buzzes with the mounting anger until he feels certain he could make anything around him explode and burn with a single touch. 

Sherlock would swear anyone near him should be able to feel the hum, the crackle of sparks waiting to fly from his fingertips. But Mycroft's expression shows only cool determination as he speaks, and for a moment his words again penetrate Sherlock's hearing: "-- and in the end, you will gain an invaluable purpose and focus from this development, so much so that in the future you will look back on the moment that John left and feel nothing but gratitude --"

He ought to do it, Sherlock thinks as he stands to approach his brother, fingers curling into fists at his sides. He ought to set everything he sees ablaze today. Because wouldn't the immolation of a world wrenched with pain at every turn be in the end a kindness?

He's already vowed, however, that he won't miss John's departure for anything. Despite his mother fluttering about their house with worry for days that he'll prove too mulish to see John off when he leaves for his military training, Sherlock _wants_ to see John rob him of all the promises he's made Sherlock. He wants to witness John crush to nothing all the times he's sworn it will always be the two of them against the world.

So for now, Sherlock settles for viciously slamming the door in Mycroft's blandly concerned face. 

Devastation can wait a little while longer.

*~*~*

Sherlock is stood in the shadow of the car when John emerges from his house. John stops for a moment hauling his duffel, squinting at the bright sun and the small crowd of their families waiting to see him off. Sherlock almost turns away right then, because it's hateful that John has chosen to wear a t-shirt so blue that it makes his eyes look even more breathtakingly beautiful than usual.

John has always been the best person Sherlock knows. But he must now deem such knowledge horribly faulty, for it fails to account for the choice John has made to leave Sherlock and to join the armed forces -- entirely on his own, entirely without Sherlock's approval. It's enough to make Sherlock's head throb to imagine John could do something so cruel; he's had no time to adjust his worldview to accommodate such an understanding. After all, he thought they had completely settled the question of what John would do next with his life years before.

*~*~*

"You ought not to worry yourself so. I'm sure it will all prove very useful for whatever it is I decide to pursue," Sherlock had assured John.

He was lolling on John's unmade bed as John frantically attempted to revise for his final examinations. 

"What?" John asked. He sounded distracted and not a little suspicious though he had yet to look up from his textbook. "What are you on about now?"

"Your medical degree, of course." Sherlock waited expectantly for John to appear encouraged by this promise of his value but sighed when John only raised his gaze and looked flummoxed. "Though I haven't chosen what career best suits me yet, I feel certain your skills and knowledge will be valuable assets." 

"Look, I have no idea why this is something I even have to say. But I'm not working at this degree just to be _useful_ to you, Sherlock," John had snapped. "Maybe I want to make something of myself. Did you ever think of that?" His chin firmed and lifted as it did whenever John acted particularly obstinate. It made Sherlock want to bite at the skin just under his jaw before brushing his lips over the spot he'd worried.

"Maybe I want to have something of my own, and not just fit into whatever plans you haven't even come up with yet," John continued.

" _Don't be an idiot_ ," Sherlock pronounced as he flopped back down on the mattress. "You know we're going to live together in London as soon as I graduate from uni, just as we've always agreed since we were children. Your clinical training will be complete by then. And with my trust fund and earnings, there will be no need for you to work at a hospital or clinic. What better use for your expertise than in working with me? I thought you'd be glad."

John laughed, but it sounded hollow. "Sherlock, you know I want us to be together. But I'm not going to throw over everything I want just because you say so. Now, stop trying to start a fight because you're annoyed I'm not paying attention to you and let me read my fucking notes."

Sherlock said nothing, but he rolled his eyes at the ceiling. Different though they were, he and John both knew they had always wanted the same thing: each other. And though of course John was promising in his own way, anyone with sense would recognize that of the two of them Sherlock was the truly exceptional one. It only stood to reason for his work to shape the path both their lives took.

They had a few years yet. John would see reason eventually.

*~*~*

"Sorry, you're saying you still think --" John said dully three years later.

Apparently the years of silence on the subject hadn't helped John acclimate himself to their situation as Sherlock had hoped. 

Sherlock had just finished detailing how exactly he planned to apply his studies in chemistry and forensics. As he spoke, he had paid special attention to emphasizing the ways in which John's recently-completed training would complement Sherlock's unique new profession. 

"Have I ever implied otherwise?" When there was no reply, he stepped away from the small loveseat in the shabby little bedsit, leaving John sitting there with his head dropped into his hands. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and moved to the window, trying to gather his thoughts to arrive at the best way to persuade John. Sherlock knew he would make for the both of them a thrilling sort of work that would keep them always engaged and together. It was absolutely critical to convince John of this as soon as possible; that way John wouldn't waste his efforts applying to various demanding medical positions as he had just been speaking of doing.

"Sherlock, you know I think you're absolutely brilliant." John gazed up at Sherlock, his blue eyes eloquent. "You're going to do amazing things."

It was with no little effort that Sherlock kept his expression composed. He didn't like to let on how much he enjoyed hearing John say such things. 

Then John had to go and ruin everything by continuing. "But we don't have to do the exact same things, do we? You have to understand, I'm not saying it'll never happen. Down the road maybe in five or ten years, we might have a, I don't know, detective agency together, or whatever it is you're proposing."

"Have you been listening at all?" Sherlock demanded. " _Consulting detective_ is the title I've determined --"

"Have _you_?" John shouted. "Sherlock, I want to be with you! But we can't go on like this, with you fitting me in wherever you've decided I'm convenient instead of treating me like I'm my own person."

"You're not convenient; you're essential!" Sherlock shouted back. 

Sherlock must have looked disturbed, because John's voice softened. "Is that what this is about? Are you worried I'll move on if we aren't working together?" 

He stood and tugged Sherlock toward him, not commenting when Sherlock went into his arms stiffly. "I know things are strange right now," he murmured. "You're finishing uni, and I'm looking for work. Everything's changing. But you don't have to come up with some elaborate plan to keep me from having my own career, especially if it's because you're worried I'll leave you." He pulled back slightly to scan Sherlock's face before drawing him into a crushing hug. "That's not going to happen, Sherlock. I'll always want to be with you."

"That's not why," Sherlock scoffed even as he let himself slump into John's embrace. 

" 'Course it's not," John said, sounding more cheerful now. He combed his fingers through the back of Sherlock's hair and tugged at the little curl at the nape of his neck he always played with.

*~*~*

For a while John treated Sherlock with that familiar casual tenderness that made Sherlock's heart ache and sing all at once. They'd meet in London, John's grin guiding him through a crowd so that he strode to John unhindered, as though there were no one standing between them instead of knots of busy passers-by. Or John would surprise Sherlock at university, walking along the campus paths all broad shoulders and compact body at his side, making Sherlock preen in the direction of anyone who saw them together.

Of course, it couldn't last. John hadn't liked it much when Sherlock interfered with his applications. 

It wasn't much of anything, really. Just a few phone calls or information submitted to the various institutes and centers considering John's candidacy. Sherlock had elevated the qualifications of another applicant at one, sent a subtly-worded recommendation damning John's qualifications with faint praise to a second, and managed to eliminate the third position entirely (he'd easily instigated a budgetary crisis by tampering with a single document).

Though Sherlock hadn't predicted such an outcome in any of his estimations of the results, John apparently somehow learned of what happened. 

He hadn't yelled. He just invited Sherlock round to his flat and then asked if it was true, ever so quietly. Even though Sherlock had evaded answering him precisely, John had stood stock still, considering. Then he had taken his jacket down from the hook and slipped out of his own flat, pulling the door to with a calm hand and leaving Sherlock alone.

It bothered Sherlock to no end that he couldn't determine who had discovered what he'd done and told John. It might have been Mummy. More likely it was Mycroft. But in the end it didn't matter. Either way, the damage was done.

*~*~*

For months they avoided the topic of John's career prospects and Sherlock's role in strategically undermining them.

Weeks went by without them seeing each other at all, though John would occasionally leave answerphone messages saying they ought to talk about it. Sometimes he sounded wistful, and it made Sherlock want to phone him back immediately though he restrained himself. Other times he seemed harsh and agitated, and Sherlock would delete the messages at once before putting it all out of his mind. 

Every so often Sherlock would break into John's flat under cover of darkness and slip into bed with him. John would murmur and grope for him, affectionate and warm while still gripped in the confusion of sleep. They'd fuck in the middle of the night, and after, when John fell back asleep and Sherlock stared at the ceiling, Sherlock would tell himself everything was back to the way it had been before. Sometimes he convinced himself it was true for days afterward, even if John slammed about the tea things in the morning and huffed until Sherlock left. 

On a few instances, they came together after one or another of their family's gatherings. In the middle of one Sunday dinner, Sherlock followed John upstairs and sank to his knees in the airing cupboard of the Watson bath while John tugged his hair and gasped and shook. An awkward holiday party Sherlock's mother had thrown the two families, obviously in a failed attempt to dissipate some of the tension, ended with the adults making stilted conversation below. Meanwhile in the east wing, John grabbed Sherlock's arm, lifting him onto the desk in Mycroft's old room and sending the buttons flying off Sherlock's shirt when he tore at it. 

But the rift between them widened, yawned; the easy companionship they'd always shared since the time they were small felt as though it was slowly slipping out of Sherlock's grasp. 

When Sherlock took to following John around London in a desperate attempt to learn what his next plan to salvage his chances at a fellowship position might be, Mycroft forced Sherlock to meet with him at his insufferable club.

"You've missed two of your exams in the process of this futile endeavor," Mycroft noted from his leather chair. 

"Irrelevant," Sherlock snapped. He stood with his back against the wall after he had adamantly refused Mycroft's request that he sit. He had little investment in completing his degree, certainly not enough to distract him from his primary purpose of everything related to winning back and keeping John.

His brother frowned at him while Sherlock glared back.

"I have taken steps to ensure you cannot further demean yourself with this nonsense," Mycroft said at last.

"You have no way of knowing what I might do next," Sherlock said at once. 

"No? You overestimate your cleverness when it comes to matters of the heart. Everything you have attempted so far has been terribly obvious."

"You'd like to think so!" 

As Mycroft sighed with exasperation, however, part of Sherlock felt troubled that perhaps his methods _had_ been quite predictable. Though John thought in the same dull plodding way as most people, he always illuminated Sherlock's thoughts, helping him attain even greater understanding than his genius alone could achieve. But now Sherlock's keen mind felt to him sluggish and fogged. He couldn't keep from perseverating about the possibility John might still find some way to desert him after all. And the more he felt John moving away, the less Sherlock found his typically superlative abilities any real use.

Silence reigned for a time. 

"I won't have you thwart John's attempts to make something of himself," Mycroft said finally. "You aren't the only one who cares for the Watsons. Indeed, your insufferable pride has caused you to neglect the critical information that I also consider John Watson a friend."

"Friend," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "That's nothing, nothing at all, compared to what John means to me."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "And as you have so capably proven your devotion by destroying every option that might have provided him with a suitable career, I have seen fit to act the part of a genuine ally and help him seek out a new possibility."

Sherlock pushed off the wall and stood ready, his fists curling at his sides. "What new possibility?"

Mycroft pursed his lips and said nothing.

"What have you done?" When Mycroft didn't answer immediately, Sherlock sprang forward, sweeping a porcelain lamp off a nearby table and raising his voice as it shattered. "Tell me!" 

"What any true friend would have done," Mycroft murmured, unperturbed as he rang the bell for attendants who would soon throw Sherlock out of the club. "Helped him discover he can still have a life apart from you."

*~*~*

Weeks later, John came to tell Sherlock himself, so that Sherlock "would be the first to know."

"Aside from Mycroft, you mean," Sherlock said flatly.

John shook his head. "He doesn't know that I've been accepted to the RAMC. He couldn't; I haven't even told my mum yet."

His laughter tasted like ash in his mouth. "Of course Mycroft is already fully aware, if indeed he didn't orchestrate your acceptance personally."

John raised his eyes to the ceiling of Sherlock's dormitory room and sighed. "I'll just ignore the bit where you're insinuating I didn't get in on my own merit. I'm trying to tell you first because I want you to understand even though I'm leaving for a time to give this a go, I'm not leaving _you_."

Sherlock waved the words away with a dismissive gesture. "It amounts to the same thing."

"It doesn't," John insisted. "You have to trust me it doesn't."

"You can tell yourself whatever you like. But don't think you're able to lie to me, John; I know you too well."

"I'm not!" John took a slow deep breath and cleared his stormy expression before he tried a smile. "You're still the most important thing in the world to me."

"You're _everything_ to me," Sherlock said fiercely. 

In a flash John knelt in front of the bed where Sherlock sat woodenly, cradling Sherlock's jaw in his warm palm and thumbing over his cheekbone. "This is something I have to do for myself, Sherlock. But you have to know I feel the same."

Sherlock didn't move for several moments. But then he closed his eyes and nudged John's hand despite himself. He'd always been a fool for John's touch. 

John surged forward, the relief plain on his face as he kissed Sherlock desperately and climbed over him onto the bed.

But afterward, while John slept deeply beside him on the too-small bed in a tangle of sheets, Sherlock muttered, "If you felt the same, you would never, ever think of going."

*~*~*

After John receives news of his acceptance, the change is strangely gradual. But at last Sherlock realizes the obvious. As the date of John's departure draws near, the world increasingly begins to shift into shades of grey.

Certain things stay vivid -- John's grin as he drags Sherlock out for one last meal at the Greek restaurant near their homes they both love, or the dark red of John's button down shirt as John frowns over the list of preparations he has still to complete before he leaves for his military training. 

The hues linger for a time in a few other places as well: the bright liquids and lights at the chemistry lab to which Sherlock still has access though he's already been asked to leave his college. Or the warm flash of dazzling insight that rushes through him when his thoughts temporarily turn to this or that puzzle before returning to the terrible fact of John's approaching disappearance. 

But with John on the verge of leaving for good, the last flickerings of color seem to concentrate on John alone, threatening to fade everywhere else entirely.

*~*~*

Now for John to heap indignity upon indignity, to break the proverbial camel's back with his choice of that soft-looking blue t-shirt, well. Though John hasn't yet met Sherlock's eyes or given any indication that this small signal of everything he's taking away is designed to hurt Sherlock further, perhaps something petty and small inside of him understands. Even as he gives his sister an obligatory hug, and Mrs. Watson looks tearfully on in what every mawkish film or television show assures Sherlock is supposed to be a touching scene -- maybe John somehow understands there's one last bit of Sherlock's heart he can still clutch in his fist until it turns to grey ash.

"Oh, Johnny," Harry says aloud in a shaky voice. In the small crowd, John's mother suppresses a sob while, next to her, Sherlock's mother touches her arm in a small awkward gesture of comfort. Mycroft hovers officiously in front of Sherlock, no doubt imagining himself a representative of queen and country seeing John off to war, his bared shirtsleeves the only concession to the sweltering day.

For Sherlock, there might as well be no one else standing near. The brave faces they've chosen to wear, those quivering lips and shining eyes they're making all the more obvious by their flawed attempts to hide them; he can't even feel contemptuous or dismissive, so much is he reeling from this final blow. 

Everything else in the world sputters and fades in the face of the burnished gold of John's hair, the appealing flush of blood in his cheeks, the stalwart green of the duffel that holds whatever belongings he's deemed essential to this journey that will take him as far away from Sherlock as he's able to get.

He's mostly glad he can barely take account of the rest of them. After all, none of them understand; none of them can see as he stands teetering, like a man at the edge of a towering building's rooftop, at the precipice of a vast nothingness. No one comprehends that all he needs to fall over the edge is for John to get in the waiting car and leave him forever.

When John at last pulls away from Harry, his gaze seeks out Sherlock. And Sherlock can't help but think of a thousand times he's seen John look for him, focus on him and him alone. It sends a dizzying rush of joy through Sherlock usually, when John turns those blue eyes to him. As long as John wants to find him, Sherlock can never be lost.

Now, however, John only wants to find him for this hateful goodbye, and Sherlock cannot bear another moment of it. 

"Hey," John says softly, approaching with care as one would an injured or feral animal. Sherlock can't see his expression, rolling his eyes upward scornfully as he is. But he knows every muscle and plane in John's mobile malleable face too well not to picture him exactly in his mind's eye. 

"Sherlock," John tries again when he gets no response. His voice dips to a lower note, and even without meeting his gaze, Sherlock knows John is reaching out for him. His hands are up to block the maneuver before he can think it through. 

"Please," John whispers, and it's so broken, so vulnerable, and so fucking unfair, because _Sherlock_ is the one suffering, that Sherlock makes contact with John's hands only to bat them away. "Christ, Sherlock. I can't leave you like this."

Dimly Sherlock hears Mycroft's pointed cough. Someone, one of their mothers most likely, clears her throat, stifles a sob.

"Yet here you are, leaving me," Sherlock bites out. "I never thought you would choose to put yourself in the line of fire just to escape me. But by all means, if you think so little of your life and mine, have at it." 

He can feel John's stare, those blue eyes on his back like burning as he turns ready to stalk off.

"Well," John's mother says into the silence. 

Harry actually laughs, grating and spiteful. "Well, weren't we all mental, to think today was about John? No, of course it's all about Sherlock; just like it always is."

"Sherlock," Mycroft murmurs: a warning, a call to behave. 

Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock takes his brother's words as a signal to walk away at last, leaving John before John can leave him. 

"No, it's okay," John speaks up. Placating them, comforting, when _he's_ the one --

If Sherlock were strong enough, he'd resist looking back. But he's actually shaking with anger now, no mere tremble of body but a vibrating thrum that fills him with the sense of a building and overwhelming power. He could destroy almost anything right now. Surely he is enough to destroy himself, to match John's own hell-bent destruction. 

He lets himself turn for one last defiant look. But it's that last view of John that takes him by surprise, cuts him down completely. Because, sitting in the front seat of the car -- prepared to depart for a tour of duty that could maim or kill him or return him utterly changed, no longer Sherlock's John -- John looks resentful and righteously disappointed. 

Sherlock has made John feel this way. Sherlock. 

It's enough to make Sherlock stagger back. 

It's almost enough to make him run to the car and plaster his hands against the glass in a mute plea for a last chance at goodbye. 

He's gotten it all wrong somehow. John isn't cruel and never ever was, not deliberately so. How could Sherlock have ever thought otherwise? And now, with that bitter speech he's delivered, it's Sherlock who is cast in the role of the cruel one. For John's blue eyes betray how saddened, how hurt he is. And it is utterly _unbearable_. 

At the revving of the car's engine, Sherlock breaks into a run, fleeing John and his own terrible mistakes.

*~*~*

The blue sky outside Sherlock's window, that pale imitation of John's eyes, empties out with a quiet wash of pink and then a brief flash of red before turning slowly grey.

Everything is grey. Everything is hateful. Everything is dead.

No one comes after him. 

He had expected Mycroft to have words for him, for his mother to coax him down to tea. 

It's easy enough to puzzle out where the others are. Mycroft is no doubt playing mother at the Watson home, pouring tea and offering bland sympathetic platitudes. Sherlock's mother probably is holding Mrs. Watson's arm in a self-conscious gesture of imparting comfort, her fingers gripping tight. Harry has most likely already left; she's too fierce and independent to think of acting the role of comforter as Mycroft does, and too weak not to seek her own brand of comfort immediately. Sherlock would bet she's completely pissed on cheap lager already at some run-down pub.

Suddenly his scorn for Harry turns to a kind of dull yearning. Nothing right now can comfort him. But perhaps a few drinks might make him forget how much he needs comfort.

So he changes his clothing, slips out of the house, and makes his way to a local club John always dismissed as a ridiculous waste of time. It's too trendy, too many desperate people trying to be noticed and attempting to chemically enhance their night. But it's clearly the best place for Sherlock right now, somewhere he can find nothing of John.

In the end, the throbbing house music and series of vodka drinks don't make him forget. They only make him uncomfortably numb with a lurking sense of pain pressing just underneath, itching to surface. 

He's seated himself at the bar and waved away any attempts to engage him. But now he turns out to face the dance floor, unseeing, his drink forgotten.

High-pitched laughter from a group of girls next to him sends him out for a smoke, exhaling in the dim alley with the club's muffled music a dull soundtrack.

"Sherlock," he hears someone murmur, and it's too close already for a night he doesn't want anyone near, but he hasn't the strength or will to move away.

"Haven't seen you round here before," Danny Hackett breathes as he leans in. His eyes are sharp and keen, and his hand on the wall next to Sherlock's shoulder too possessive by far. "Decide to slum it tonight, posh boy? Maybe you like playing it a little dangerous, eh?"

Normally Sherlock would say something cutting and turn on his heel from the likes of Danny. After all, Danny is barely distinguishable from dozens of other common troublemakers Sherlock encountered growing up. He's attractive enough: dark hair, golden skin, faded black jacket clinging to his muscular arms. But why would Sherlock care about an empty pretty package when he has someone like John?

John, so bright, so warm; he could eclipse a nothing like Danny any day, make him fade like a paper flower touched by flame to turn to ash --

Sherlock inhales sharply. John isn't here. 

He barely meets Danny's eyes when he mumbles, "Maybe I was looking for you."

"Yeah?" Danny grins, white teeth bared. "Looks like you finally lost that pillock you always had on your tail."

Some old muscle memory wants Sherlock to grit his teeth and snap and bite, shout how John is worth tens of thousands of Danny.

But tonight Sherlock just waits, passive and limp.

"I can show you a real good time," Danny whispers. His breath is hot and a little sour when he moves forward; Sherlock can feel the push of every word on his lips. "Pretty thing like you deserves a bit of fun on a night like tonight."

 _Let's get out of here_ , John would have said, his jaw tight and hand guiding Sherlock, warm on the small of his back or strong and reassuring where it gripped his shoulder.

But John's not by his side anymore. And part of Sherlock aches with the thought he'll never be touched by anyone again. 

So when Danny slides a leg between Sherlock's thighs and leans in to leer, Sherlock slumps against the wall and gives a short nod.

*~*~*

A flare of feeling with the needle sliding into his skin, a paltry imitation of warmth from Danny's hand steadying Sherlock's arm, and there. _There_.

His entire body jerks out of numbness to intense glorious vitality. There's a cold rush through his brain as the world comes back into focus. Sherlock feels so fantastic, he laughs when he feels Danny's mouth on his, chokes a bit on Danny's tongue.

He has no idea when or how they stumble out of the dirty toilets, but they're on the dance floor when Sherlock blinks next. Fuck, but everything feels amazing: Danny's hands on his arse, his teeth scraping along Sherlock's neck, the pulse of music echoing the hum of blood in his veins, the throb of his cock pressed against Danny through the material of their jeans.

"I feel extraordinary," Sherlock breathes out. It hardly matters everything around him still glowers grey; he only has to ignore what he sees. He raises his arms in the air to let the marvelous feelings better flow through him.

"Fucking fit is what you are," Danny growls, yanking Sherlock closer. "Bet you've never had nobody take you as hard and fast as I can. Tonight's your lucky night, isn't it?"

"Yes," Sherlock sighs as Danny bends him back and pushes his t-shirt up to bare his chest.

*~*~*

It's a blur and a sharp ache before Sherlock's aware again, on his forearms and knees, staring down in almost total darkness at dingy sheets that might have once been white.

"Fuck, but you're tight," Danny groans. His hips judder forward and Sherlock grunts in pain.

He has no idea if there's a condom, if he said yes, if Danny even asked. 

"That's it, that's right," Danny mutters. His fingertips dig into Sherlock's sides even as he uses his right hand to stroke along the small of Sherlock's back. But he's not touching him for reassurance or warmth, no. He's pushing Sherlock's body down, making him collapse against the mattress. Sherlock's cheek rasps back and forth over the bedclothes that smell like stale sex and cigarettes, leaving his arse high in the air for Danny to fuck hard. 

Somewhere through the discomfort and pain a memory seeps in through Sherlock's body, like a ghost possessing his limbs and nerves in a jolt of possession, of the first time he'd done this with John.

*~*~*

It had been day, streaming sunlight throughout the tiny attic room John rented while he finished his last term at medical school.

"Sure?" John had asked one last time, skimming warm steady hands over Sherlock's flanks.

"Yes," Sherlock had half-shouted, impatient from too much gentleness and care. 

Behind him, John had laughed. When he drew away his fingers and eased in his cock, Sherlock's eyes had gone wide while his mouth rounded to let out a trembling little, "Oh!"

"Have I hurt you?" John asked immediately, worried. He halted, the effort of it clear in his panting breathing. 

Sherlock shook his head and carefully arched his back, thrusting his arse up in a slow sinuous motion.

They both gasped as John slid all the way inside.

"You're inside me," Sherlock whispered. It made no matter that they'd tried fingers and a small toy before. This was John, the thickness and heat and -- "Oh, _John_."

"I love you," John murmured as he started to move. "I love you so much, Sherlock."

After, John had pulled him close, held him tight and kissed away the tears that Sherlock had no idea he'd sobbed out.

*~*~*

Now Sherlock's eyes are dry.

Danny's collapsed on the bed next to him. "Not bad," he says. He smokes a cigarette he doesn't offer to share.

Soon enough he's turning away from Sherlock to face the wall, groaning a bit before his breathing evens out.

It's grown so dark in the room that when Sherlock turns his head, he can't see anything at all. 

"John," he mouths to nothing, to no one, before he starts to tremble. 

The faint thump of his heart, so slow now the drugs are wearing off, seems a worthless echo of the frenetic energy he barely remembers coursing through him earlier today. How stupid to think he might ravage the world with his anger.

All there is to do now is fade away.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this heartbreaking fanart](http://shootbadcabbies.tumblr.com/post/60412993826/so-pretty-so-smart-such-a-waste-of-a-young) by shootbadcabbies. I hope I've done her fine work justice.
> 
> Thank you to wesleysgirl for her lightning-quick beta.
> 
> Feedback absolutely welcome and appreciated like crazy.


End file.
